Thinking like a horse
They are flight animals. When they are afraid, they run away.
I’m always trying to think like my horse: What can we do to approach new tasks or objects or situations together? It’s about building trust. We started this when he just about a year old.
Yesterday we had a great success: walking over the bridge. We’ve approached it before. I let him look, and sniff, and nibble on the rope a bit. When I’m by his side, he’ll stretch out his neck to check something out– but take another step? Nope. So I put a biscuit on one of the posts. Ooooh. Maybe half a step closer to get that treat. We tried it on the other side. Biscuits there too, not bad.
Some snorting and ear-flapping going on, and that was enough for the horse brain for one day.
Actually walking over the bridge, though. No stop and sniff, and no running away. The biscuit bribery works here too. I stood on the bridge and called to him, showed him a biscuit. When he realized he might have to step on the bridge to get the biscuit I got a look. But one foot. Then the next. And the biscuit-and-ear-scratches lady (me) was already on the other side, so he came over too. Excellent. Nothing bad happened.
We walked around the course and looked at old friends (slalom poles) and new (barrels). And then strutted across that bridge, chatting all the while. No biscuits, but plenty of pats and affirmations on the other side.
I know how to do this, I know what his wee horse brain is up to. And I know that he trusts me.
We must have crossed that bridge five or six times from each side. Good stuff.
This morning he was happy to see me (as always), but kind of extra-nuzzly. Looking / hoping for biscuits? Or just affection? Who can tell?
We got cleaned up and tacked up, chatting and nosing the entire time like the two co-conspirators we are. Then we walked off toward the arena and BOOM. NOT GOING THERE.
I wondered what was different today.
Ah, both doors are open.
I close one of them, and circle back with him to walk in. Fools rush in, as the song goes. He bolted into the arena, paying no heed to me valiantly trying to half-halt the reins in my one hand. Then my ankle twists and I am down. He gallops to the far end of the arena, then stops to look at me. Head up, ears on full alert. I get up and spit the sand out of my mouth, then call to him. Unh-uh. He starts pacing nervously at the far end of the arena.
(yes, he’s glorious, but this is not what I want to see when we are in work mode)
I turn back and make sure both doors are shut, then walk to him. He settles and lets me approach. We walk back to the corner where the lunge line hangs because clearly he has to work something out and I am not getting on until that is done. He is unusually bouncy and distracted while I get him organized to lunge. And then he will absolutely not circle me, keeps trying to bolt to the far end. At this moment my trainer appears, asks if I am ok, then says he will lunge him and I should watch from outside. Horse is panicky and weird and I am all too happy to comply. Maybe I should go wash the grit out of the sand burn on my left elbow. As I close the door behind me I see it: The Trailer. It’s parked right there next to the entrance, not where it usually is. I call to my trainer, “It’s the trailer! Why didn’t I see that?!”
How stupid am I, I think to myself.
But trainer is too busy holding on to horse to reply. Something is really not right here.
The battle of wills between these two is something to see. Size-wise, my trainer has no chance, but he is unquestionably the authority figure in this relationship. In angry debate with one another – my horse with his entire giant body, my trainer with his voice and body language– the two move gradually to the far end of the arena, where horse finally gives in and starts circling on the lunge. Not without a few sassy ear flicks and kicks, though.
As I watch my horse’s gallop subside into a rhythmic canter, still punctuated with occasional snorts of annoyance, I notice out of the corner of my eye the farm’s patriarch walking calmly into the scene and removing a blanket from the side of the arena, where it was drying in the sun. He folded the black fleece and walked it back to the tack area.
I was not the only one registering that movement. Twenty meters away, the tension went out of my horse like a balloon. He transitioned to a trot when my trainer asked, and then to a mannerly walk. I entered the arena and we met in the middle.
“It was the blanket,” my trainer and I said in unison, then laughed.
His very own blanket, the one he wore while braving the bridge yesterday, transformed into a monstrous object of horror because it was In A Different Place.
So much for thinking like a horse.
Putting yourself in the other person’s shoes (even when the other guy has four shoes and they are made of iron) is always a helpful exercise. It’s how we humans develop and nurture empathy. And, as illustrated above, can be a lesson in humility.
Humility and empathy seem to be in short supply in the world just now.
Those of us cursed with the gift of empathy, as well as other highly sensitive persons, are suffering enormously. When the world around us is going to hell and the proverbial nice guy finishes last, what to do?
Just continue. Keep your heart open for the ones who are going to give you biscuits and ear scratches, and your mind open for the moment when change will come. None of us are alone.
I learned so much from my horses. There is no hiding your emotions from them. They're so perceptive.
Beautiful.